In Search of his Other Life
by agrajagthetesty
Summary: Set after the film. Al, left largely alone in a world that sets him on edge, develops a fascination with his other life. No pairings intended. Now with two chapters, but almost certainly over now.
1. Chapter 1

**In Search of his Other Life**

It was loneliness that had provoked it, in the end. Upon arriving in this world, Al had been plunged into the most terrible, complete loneliness he had ever felt.

It wouldn't have started if he had had some company; but Ed was out of the house an awful lot. It was a habit that he had picked up in this world, or maybe during their years of travelling; Al, whose memory had still only half-returned, couldn't be sure. In any case, Ed was constantly away, marching the streets as the day grew brighter, then darker, then brighter again as the street lamps came on, in search of who knew what.

There had been Noah to talk to, at first, but she had disappeared a few weeks after he had arrived. The death of that person had apparently affected her, for she grew further and further inside herself until finally she became totally, unrelentingly silent. Then, a short time after that, she had disappeared. She hadn't packed, but she had left nothing behind. She had simply, quietly, without making a fuss or disturbing anyone, vanished, in the same way in which she had arrived. Ed had walked the streets for three days looking for her before he realised that she had gone for good. He had then descended into silence himself, as if in tribute, and had seemed to be thinking. Finally he had confessed to Al that Noah and that person had spent a lot of time together. He had then redoubled the amount of time he spent outside the house, leaving before Al was awake and returning a long time after the shops closed.

So Al was left alone in the house, like a single pea in a broken rattle.

Of course, wherever he looked he was surrounded by familiar faces. He couldn't walk down to the corner without catching sight of Gracia, who, among the jumbled, confused, half-clutter of memories that had returned to him, stood out particularly strongly. Except that this was not Gracia.

Ed didn't understand that Al refused to talk to Gracia for fear of being rude. The way Ed saw it, it was rude to ignore people, full stop. Even when Al tried to explain that even so, he considered it a less direct, personal form of rudeness than the rudeness that would result if he did talk to her, Ed didn't comprehend.

The fact was that whenever Al did talk to Gracia, he was constantly thinking of the other Gracia. He couldn't help but address her as the widow of a close friend, who apparently made the best apple pie in the whole of Amestris- although Al himself had never tasted it- and who lived alone with her young daughter. And she, no matter how similar they looked or how much of the same kindness they shared, was not the Gracia in the flower shop. It wasn't fair to befriend her. He would only be doing so out of his own selfishness, to try and bring himself closer to his real friend. He would never be speaking to this Gracia, only to her counterpart.

But Ed did talk to her, of course, and Al still didn't know how he managed it. Perhaps he had been able to overcome this problem. Perhaps it didn't matter to him. Or perhaps he had never considered it a problem, having never experienced it firsthand, unlike his brother.

For Al had felt it himself, in the way Noah spoke to him. She had looked at him with eyes filled with sadness, but also a blind, mindless hope. Over time this had become confusion, then regret, and then, just before she left, a dull despair as she realised that he was not that person. She had become unable to look him in the eye. She had gone. And the entire process had been heart-wrenching for Al, who understood entirely and who could do absolutely nothing about it.

So the possible company that Gracia offered was impossible, and Al was left to his own devices inside the house.

He explored it thoroughly, wondering if the houses in this world, like the people, were carbon copies of the ones in their own world. The answer was a definite no.

It was a strange house in many ways. To start with, it was tall and thin, not wide and spacious like the Rockbells' house, or square and chunky like the buildings of Lior. For another thing, there was much less light in it than he was used to, filling the already narrow corridors and rooms with dark corners and hidden spaces. Lastly, and most importantly, it was full of strange, half-disguised feelings and emotions. At least, that was how it seemed. Maybe Al was only projecting his own mixed feelings onto the place where he lived, but it felt to him as though even the wallpaper in this place screamed of old tensions and long silences and deep hidden confusions. Memories of two lives lurked superimposed on top of each other, different parts shining through at different times. Ed's room, on the rare occasion Al was forced to enter, was the centre of these problems: especially narrow, especially dark, and especially full of mementos from all the various lives he had led.

The only room Al found that was free from these disturbances was the kitchen, which was bright with a yellow glow and somehow seemed to have a warm feel to it.

"Warm?" Ed said in confusion when Al asked about it. "Well, that room faces east, so the sun shines on the windows in the morning. . ."

Sometimes Al wondered whether Ed actually understood anything at all.

It emerged eventually, after Al asked more carefully, that that person, along with Noah, had spent much of his time there.

That person. The other Alphonse, or Alfons, as he had gathered it was spelt here. Al had been living in this house for at least a few months now, and yet he had never found a single remnant of Heidrich- as Ed had taken to calling him, presumably to avoid confusion. Ed had lived here for far less time than this Heidrich had, yet he seemed to have made far more of an impression on it. Ed was present everywhere, from the photographs and letters lurking on every surface, to the newspaper cuttings and stray pieces of metal on the table in the living room, to the books stacked anywhere and everywhere. Yet Heidrich seemed to be present only in the light in the kitchen, and on the diagrams of rockets still scattered around, some of which included notes written in a steady, even hand that certainly did not belong to Ed.

Al read over these notes with a ravenous interest, trying to discover everything he could about the other version of himself. They were largely unhelpful and unenlightening, as they were, after all, only notes on fins and fuels and streamlined nose-cones. But they were all he had. Ed seemed to have resolved not to talk about Heidrich more than was absolutely necessary, due to an odd, groundless fear that to do so would only cause trouble in some way or another. But Al felt both a duty and a curiosity that drove him to find out all he could.

He had attended the funeral, of course, even though he had never met Heidrich; the first and only time he saw him, he had been dead and cold and cradled in Noah's arms. It had been a shock, but only as far as seeing the body of any young man shot dead for helping a friend would have shocked him. He hadn't looked too closely, so he had not seen the face of the person who was supposedly his double, apart from basic differences in age and colouring. He didn't even know why he was suddenly so curious, but he put it down to a natural interest in the person he could have been and a search for his other life.

But Ed didn't talk about him, and answered as briefly as possible when questioned, and the house was bare of anything relating to him. The few things that Al found were analysed in detail. Still, he knew little.

Time passed, and he grew more into this world. It still confused him, still made him nervous, still shocked him at times. But it began to feel more like home.

Then one day in the frozen centre of November, something happened. Ed briefly returned to the house in the middle of the afternoon, as he had never done before.

Al had returned from lunch, and was just settling to internal debate over how to use his afternoon, when Ed burst into the house and pelted up the stairs into his room, leaving the door hanging open.

Al hovered nervously in the doorway. "Brother?"

"Come in," Ed said hurriedly, fumbling through the content of his desk and scattering papers everywhere in the process. "Come on, for God's sake. Help me look."

Al came in slowly and searched through the pile of junk on the end of the bed. "What are you looking for?"

"A bunch of papers," Ed said, out of breath, "tied together with . . . string. . . There's a map too. . . Ah!" He grabbed hold of something. "Got it!"

And he ran down the stairs two at a time, using his own momentum to go as fast as possible and ignoring the banisters, before running hell for leather out of the hallway and away again, swinging the door closed behind him.

Al was left alone in a house ringing with echoes of the shock from the sudden and violent intrusion. For a moment he stood still, speculating for the first time about what it could be that Ed was doing all day, and why he insisted on going alone. Then he moved, sighed, and stared around at the mess Ed's brief return had made in the bedroom.

He went over to the desk and began to pick up the paper scattered everywhere, sorting them into piles according to size, having no other method of categorising them without reading them, which he was loath to do. Until his eye was caught by a particular group of letters.

He raised them and looked over them with curiosity. He really ought not to read them, of course, but on the other hand. . . Ed had flung them around with reckless abandon, and had even told him to look through them, so they couldn't be all that private. . .

Glancing around, as though the house might report on his actions, he unfolded the letters and began to read.

_Dear Mr Edward_

_Since the accident, sponsorship has been unfortunately difficult to find, however I have recently been approached by a very influential man, who. . ._

And the second.

_Dear Mr Edward_

_I understand your opinion of this prospect, but I hope you will also understand my decision to follow the advice of Mr Oberth and speak to Mr Res. He expressed an interest in our research and offered funds on the condition of a public demonstration, which he would of course attend. In my opinion it can do no harm. . ._

And the third.

_Dear Edward_

_I was informed of the disappearance of your father by a mutual friend. Under the circumstances I feel an obligation, both as a colleague and as a friend, to offer my assistance, such as it is. . ._

All the letters were signed "Alfons".

Al folded them carefully and placed them on top of the pile of paper he had gathered. He lined them up, first one way, then another. Eventually he put them away and continued to tidy up, gathering more papers from the floor and the desk, but now examining each piece before putting it away, hungry for more information.

"Action/reaction. A fuel consisting of two different substances. Try hydrogen and nitrogen. Care during demonstrations."

Alongside an arrow labelling a diagram: "Mr Res' suggestion. Unsure. Situation demands we comply."

Cramped into a corner by Ed's multiple scribbles documenting the history of previous and current research: "Edward- Appointment at hangar 10:30. Don't forget".

And then, amongst the notes written by two hands in the same black notebook that they seemed to have shared: "Meeting with technicians and doctors. Many suggestions. Will explain in detail."

Following this was a strange note from Ed: "Don't let him tell you what to do."

Al stopped, bewildered, overwhelmed. What could that mean? He read it again. It was written in Ed's usual handwriting- rushed, messy, cramped with the effort of writing with the wrong hand. But that simple sentence overflowed with implications and possible information. Maybe this could be referring to Alfons' illness?

And then something colourful fluttered out from between the pages of the notebook and fell to the floor.

Al lowered the book and looked around-

- to find himself staring at a picture of him, lying on the floor where it had fallen.

And Ed had been right. Apart from colouring, age and slight differences in the shape of the jaw line, they were the same. Exactly alike. Alfons, however, had a slightly different expression in his eyes. Despite Al's gentleness, he had a deep, unrelenting hidden stubbornness and determination, much like Ed's, which was disguised by his round, honest face, but which shone brightly through his eyes. Alfons, however, lacked this quality. His expression seemed resigned, quietly sad and genuinely kind, but with a hint of something darker in the furthest corners of his face.

And all Al had had to do was scratch the surface of this house, and all these memories had come tumbling out.

He placed the photograph carefully on the desk, wondering how much Alfons knew about his cross-dimensional brother, and how much he believed of the ridiculous story. He thought that maybe Alfons, too, was often embarrassed by Ed's behaviour, and that maybe he, too, constantly tried to keep him out of trouble. But then Al remembered that Alfons was dead.

---

"What's wrong with you?" Ed asked, miraculously home by dinner time and eating together with him at the table.

"I've been thinking," Al said.

"What about?"

Al paused, wondering what he should say. "About . . . Heidrich." Somehow it was difficult to refer to him by his last name.

Ed frowned and glanced up. "Why were you thinking about him?"

Al felt this as an almost physical blow. "Why wouldn't I? Don't you ever think about him?"

Ed hesitated. What should he say to this? He didn't know what Al was getting at, or why he was suddenly asking about all this. Surely he wasn't jealous of Heidrich? But . . . why did it even matter to Al anyway? The question, he thought, had a hidden relevance that he couldn't fathom.

In the end he merely shrugged.

All was still for a while.

Then suddenly, inexplicably, Al was crying.

_Author's note: Sorry if Alfons or Noah are out of character, but I've always found them both very difficult to understand, and even more so to explain._


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Al lay in bed, rigid, with his eyes wide open, determinedly not thinking about the conversation he had just had. He looked fixedly at the ceiling, not thinking about Ed, not thinking about Amestris, and certainly not thinking about Heidrich- no, his name was Alfons, dammit.

Too late.

Why did Ed insist on calling him by his last name, really? To avoid confusion- well, that was fair enough as long as he was talking to someone else about the two of them, but if he was talking to Al himself, surely it wasn't necessary? Not, it was strange, no doubt about it.

But he turned over onto his side, closing his eyes and not considering this. It wouldn't help, after all. He would never be sure about it until he asked Ed, and even then he couldn't be certain. Ed was not above lying to or deliberately hiding information from him, after all. It was infuriating; even though Al knew that his brother didn't like to seem weak and would never ask for help anyway. He sometimes- no, he _often_ wished that Ed would stop being so noble and selfless for a change. It would help them both, in one way or another.

Well, that would never happen, but Al certainly could ask him about all this, and demand a straight answer from him this time, not like the answers he had been given earlier, if you could call those answers at all.

Yes. He sat up and swung his legs out of bed, determining to get up, march into Ed's bedroom, shake him awake and . . . and. . .

What could he do? He had already asked these questions, and he had been brushed off and avoided as though it was nothing. There was no use in asking for another time. He lay reluctantly down again, and drew the sheets up to his chin. It was useless. All that Ed was willing to say, he had already told him.

It was so pitifully little, though. What did he know now that he hadn't known for sure earlier? That Ed was a miser of information, which he had always suspected anyway, but what else?

Despite himself, he went through the conversation in his head, just in case there was something he had missed.

"Why are you crying?" Ed had asked, astonished and bewildered.

Al had said nothing, gulping down his tears and shaking with suppressed sobs.

Ed's eyes were wide with confusion as he stared at his little brother, helpless. "I'm . . . sorry, Al."

"Why?" Al had asked, looking up, no longer able to prevent himself. "Why don't you talk about Alfons? What happened to all the pictures of him? What- Why- Where _are_ you all day?!"

Ed flinched.

As soon as he saw that, Al wished that the tone of his questions hadn't ended up so accusatory, but it was too late, and besides, that was the way he felt about it. Lies were lies, whether they were told with words or tone of voice, and Al wanted to be truthful.

Ed's face contracted and he stared down at the table in silence. Al watched him intently, tears still shining defiantly in his eyes, but determined, now that the questions had finally been asked, to get some information out of him.

Eventually Ed spoke. "Why are you so interested?"

"Because- Because this is my world too! I live here now, and I live with _you_, and I want to know."

Ed sighed. "You already know."

"But-!"

"Heidrich lived here for a while, that's all," he continued unwaveringly. "But then he was killed. That's it."

That was _not_ it.

"As for where I go, well. . ." Ed hesitated momentarily, but continued with further resolve. "You don't need to know."

That had been that. Ed, despite Al's numerous protests, had said no more, and had retired to his room shortly afterwards.

Al winced involuntarily after thinking that, as if Ed had actually heard him associate his brother with the word "short" in any way at all.

He gritted his teeth, and frowned in frustration. Other that searching through Ed's bedroom for clues again, which he didn't want to do- he still felt guilty about the first time- or following him all day, there was nothing he could do to find out more.

It was the exclusion that pained him the most. Being left behind, unable to help, and not being a part of Ed's plans, no matter what they were or how dangerous they could be, was a strange, sickening sort of situation, and not one that he felt he could get used to. Even worse was not even having any idea about what the strange mission was.

He rolled onto his stomach and buried his face in his pillow, trying to somehow smother his thoughts for a moment, long enough to get to sleep. If only he hadn't begun this investigation in the first place, he though longingly, in a tone almost akin to mental whining, this would never have happened.

He seemed to have a habit of only realising things after it was too late, recently.

---

Ed glared at the streetlamp glow shining palely through his window and cutting a slim slice of yellow light across the ceiling of his bedroom, and, for once in his life, wished for curtains. For heaven's sake, he ought to have been able to just clap his hands, and problem solved. Even without alchemy, he had used to be able to just dip into his military funds whenever he needed to. Finding himself suddenly penniless and unable to use his greatest talent was not something that he could adjust to easily, even after this much time. With a scowl, he wondered if he could knock out the bulb of the lamp with a shoe from his window.

But, he admitted to himself with a sigh, the light was by no means the only thing preventing him from sleeping. Damn, Al's questioning was persistent. Constantly asking him about Heidrich. . . As if he could give a straight answer. It was far more complex than Al thought.

Ed didn't even know why Al was asking. Jealousy, he figured, was probably the most likely cause. Al was somehow jealous of his cross-dimensional self, if that was even possible. And if that was the case, then it would do no good to tell him more, and would possibly only make things worse. If Al envied Heidrich the time he had had with Ed, then surely Ed ought to make it seem as though they had hardly known each other, and that he was hardly affected now that Heidrich was dead. Then there would be nothing to be jealous of. But for some reason this tactic only seemed to make Al even more upset.

And then there was what he was doing. Ed hadn't expected Al to ask about it; had thought that by now Al would understand that Ed didn't like to drag other people into possible danger; that he was only trying to protect his younger brother.

But then another thought came to him, making it still more difficult to sleep.

---

Breakfast the next morning was a subdued affair, each of them deliberately not catching the other's eye. Al stared out of the window, unsure whether to scowl or look plaintively at his brother. Ed looked away in turn, keeping his eyes on his plate. Al couldn't read his expression.

Eventually the silence was broken. Ed pushed his chair back and stood with a decisive action, grabbing his coat from off the back of his chair. "I'll be going then."

Al glanced at him briefly, before slumping his shoulders and looking away again, leaning his chin on his hand and staring at the wall.

Ed stood by his chair as he pulled his coat on and tied back his hair. "What?"

Al looked up at him in confusion. Ed was still standing there, looking down at him expectantly. _Expecting what?_ "Aren't you going?"

"Well, yes, moron, that's why I'm waiting for you," Ed said patiently.

Al started, and looked up at him in bafflement. "Huh?"

"Can't you remember where you left your coat?"

Al's eyes widened with astonishment. "But. . ."

"You can borrow mine, if you want."

"N- no, it's alright. . ."

"Then let's go."

It wasn't until they had left the house and Ed was locking the door behind them that Al managed to formulate a coherent sentence. "But I thought I didn't need to know?"

"So did I," Ed said bluntly, putting the key away and turning to face him, hands in his pockets. "But . . . you helped me for years that last time, and you didn't _need_ to then, either. And, well, you'd bug me for a million years if I didn't let you this time."

Ed walked away to the corner of the street, turned back, and gestured over his shoulder to hurry up. Al stared at him, speechless.

Then his face split into a delighted smile and he ran to catch up with his brother.

_Author's note: Yay happy end! Happy end makes for happy writer. The hardcore angst fans might be a bit disappointed, though._

_Well, my deranged little plot bunny has evolved into what could almost be referred to as a whole other chapter. It's a lot shorter than the first one, though. Blame that on the fact that this one has a lot more Ed in it. Sorry, sorry._

_I wrote this chapter to finish the story off a bit, seeing as this would really be the end of the end if it was official. After the anime and after the movie. I hatehatehate open endings, so . . . I wrote more. And there was much rejoicing. Me: Yay!_


End file.
